


look in the mirror (there goes your hero)

by wulancaka (surabayuh)



Category: Bumilangit Cinematic Universe, Gundala (2019)
Genre: Budding Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, and the sacrifices that came along with it, movie aftermath, or; sancaka dealing with his heroic ascend, wulan and sancaka the only hets to ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 11:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20527637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surabayuh/pseuds/wulancaka
Summary: In the earliest hint of dawn, while she was nursing a cup of tea with trembling hands, unable to find rest in slumber, Wulan found Sancaka stumbling into her home, his entire body shaking.“G'apa.” He grunted, when Wulan stood up so quickly her lukewarm tea spilled all over. “Aku gak—apa.”And then he unceremoniously dropped to the floor.





	look in the mirror (there goes your hero)

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most nano-nano i have ever written, so, forewarning: dialogues are in Indonesian, and descriptions are in english. from the depth of my gentrified bilingual ass, I apologize for the mishmash of language, i'm relearning our mother tongue, hehe.

In the earliest hint of dawn, while she was nursing a cup of tea with trembling hands, unable to find rest in slumber, Wulan found Sancaka stumbling into her home, his entire body shaking. 

“G'apa.” He grunted, when Wulan stood up so quickly her lukewarm tea spilled all over. “Aku gak—apa.” 

And then he unceremoniously dropped to the floor. 

“_San!” _The yelp came out from her mouth involuntarily, and immediately the cup of tea became an inconvenience. She hastily sat it down to the table and all but leaped to his side. 

Sancaka was still wearing that god-awful makeshift mask they made together, and from his labored breathing Wulan could tell that it was starting to suffocate him. Gingerly, she peeled the mask off his face; first the goggle, then the fabric. She noted that the goggle had the faintest hint of red splatters at the edges, and that the fabric was sticky and matted in a dark crimson. 

What greeted him was no hero—just his banged-up, bruised neighbor weakly grinning, “hey.” 

Wulan didn't grin back, and the tremble in her hands grew worse. “Kamu luka.” She said, curtly, leaving no room for him to debate. Her nimble fingers hovered over his temple, where ugly cuts marred his skin, and dried blood ran through past his cheekbones, all the way down to his chin. 

“G'sakit.” Sancaka grunted, his voice way too hoarse for a convincing reassurance. Wulan shook her head and slowly pulled herself away from him—only to have his hand grabbing her wrist in a flash. 

Gone was the faux cheeky light attitude he displayed her. His eyes were suddenly filled with surprised desperation, one that’s matching hers. “mau k'mana?” he asked, his tone matching his pleading eyes. 

Wulan noted that the grip on her wrist were electric—bearing the tiniest hint of lightning, enough to alert her skin, and nowhere near close to hurting her. 

“Ambil P3K,” her voice was softer now, as she looked at him with gently. “Cuma di dapur. Sebentar aja.” She said, now taking her turn in reassuring him. 

Sancaka sighed, and his grip loosened, giving enough space for her to pull her hand. Wulan hoped he didn’t notice her ongoing tremble as she inched away from him. 

The entire trip to the kitchen couldn’t be more than five-steps-long, given the tiny nature of their apartment, but it still was the longest five steps of her life. As she blindly reached the kitchen cabinet, trying to feel the First Aid Kit box with her hands alone, she stole a glance at Sancaka, who was still unmoving from his slumped position. 

When she realized that his eyes were starting to grow droopy, fear gripped her chest in a way that it never did before tonight. “_Hey!” _ She said, her voice louder and less stable than she would have liked it to. “Jangan tidur !” it was less of a command and more of a plea, because _what if he had a severe concussion? What if he had __a fatal exposure to a toxic substance? What if when he closed his eyes, he would never open them _**_again_**_? _

Sancaka's head snapped at her direction, and he offered her another mild, weak smile, but she then saw him trying his damned best to open his eyes, and something inside her stomach fluttered. 

When she finally located the Kit among containers of sugar and teas, she all but hastily grabbed it and rushed back to his side. She gently nudged him up, shouldering his heavy posture back to the couch where she sat on, previously. Sancaka let out an involuntary grunt of pain when she lowered him down to the dusty ornament, and her worry grew tenfold. 

Worrying, it seemed, was Wulan's current best capacity. One she couldn’t shake off in the aftermath of—of— 

_ Teddy__, crying on __the roof as someone pointed a gun on his head. Pak __Agung__, snapped and discarded so easily, like a doll. And those _ _ people _ _ . _

_ Those _ _ people _ _ — _

“—Lan?” 

Sancaka reached her wrist, then, clutching it again, snapping her out of her reverie. Wulan shook her head, trying to get over her bearings. She took a deep breath, once, twice, willing her fingers to stop shaking. 

“Aku—” she begun, “aku bakal buka baju kamu, ya.” She said, and in another world, in another situation, perhaps it would be a line that would make them turn beet red, would make her falter and him stutter. But this reality did not allow pleasantries, and the only suggestion she was making was that she was trying her best to patch him up. 

Sancaka nodded, moving his body when needed to help her do her task, wincing every time he did so. 

Years of experience in nursing never made her immune to the fragile state of the human body. If she thought that Sancaka's face was bad, his body was even _ worse; _cuts, bruises, and wounds littered his entire torso, and when Wulan experimentally pressed a gentle finger at his rib, Sancaka groaned, draining all color from her face. 

Perhaps he saw her going growingly pale, because he immediately rushed to tell her, “G’apa.” He said, “aku—cepet sembuh. Nanti siangan juga—hilang.” He grinned, again, his hanging hand raising, forming a fist, as if saying, _superpower, remember? _

Still, Wulan was not reassured one bit. “Luka kayak gini,” she said, as she begun to open disinfectant and dabbed cotton to it, “Kalo dibiarin kebuka, gak dibersihin, bisa malah infeksi.” She rubbed the coated cotton to his open wounds, eliciting a hiss from Sancaka. “kan gak lucu aja, jagoan, bisa ngontrol petir, eh, meninggalnya gara-gara infeksi.” 

Her joke was bad, and it fell flat, but Sancaka laughed nonetheless, his quiet chuckle vibrating through his chest, and of all things that had happened between them, _ this _was the one that made her blush. “Jagoan, ya?” he said, absent-mindedly. 

“Iya, lah.” Wulan said, discarding the used cotton at the table, next to her long-forgotten cup of tea. She started picking up the medical sewing kit from her box, mapping the wounds on his body that needed stitches. “Orang kamu bisa menang lawan orang sebanyak itu, sendirian. Kalo bukan jagoan, namanya apa?” 

Sancaka's smile grew somber, and his gentle eyes became clouded. “Tapi nggak sebelum mereka—” he paused, his Adams apple moving as he gulped, “bunuh Pak Agung.” His voice was thick, and heavy, and bore the telltale trail of emotions. “nggak sebelum mereka—nyuntik racun itu ke puluhan ibu-ibu hamil.” 

He clenched and unclenched his fist, and that was when Wulan realized that for him, there was no victory tonight; only defeat. Defeat, because he failed to prevent the death of his father figure. Defeat, because he failed to destroy those poisons in time. 

Whereas the people hailed him a new hero, He saw himself as a _failure_. 

Wulan tilted his chin up, one hand holding the needle that Sancaka kept on eyeing since it entered his peripheral vision. “Aku bakal jahit luka yang di jidatmu.” She said, gently, “bakal sakit, karna aku gak punya anastesi, jadi maaf, ya, sebelumnya.” 

“Gak apa.” Sancaka reassured her, and Wulan took a deep breath, delving to her work. The flat grew quiet, and only their breathings, and Tedy's occasional snore, filled the silence as she stitched. One, two… 

“Tedy kalau dengkur keras juga, ya,” Sancaka attempted to lighten up the mood, perhaps to also distract himself from the growing pain on his forehead. 

“Gara-gara kamu,” the words lurched out of Wulan's mouth before she could hold herself back. 

Sancaka paused, looking at her with curious eyes. Wulan took a deep breath. 

“dia bisa tidur, nyenyak banget gitu…” She said, finishing the last strands of her stitches before she looked at him intently, “gara-gara kamu berhasil nyelametin dia.” She said, taking his hand into hers, gently squeezing it. “gara-gara kamu berhasil nyelametin _k__ita. _” 

Sancaka blinked, once, twice, and his hand flexed back, wrapping his fingers around hers. “Menurut kamu gitu?” He asked, and the desperation returned in his tone, this time alongside vulnerability that wrenched Wulan's heart. 

He looked so tired, under the dim light of her flat, so spent and exhausted and _sad. _

“kamu bukan sekedar jagoan, Sancaka,” she said, softly, “kamu_ pahlawan__." _

His eyes brightened, though as quickly as it came, it disappeared as well. “Bukan pahlawan, buat Pak Agung.” He said, defeated. “bukan pahlawan, buat anak-anak itu—yang bakal lahir cacat karena—” he shuddered, “karena aku nggak cukup_ cepat__. _” 

_ Because I am not enough _. 

Wulan sighed, moving her work to another wound—this one needed a betadine, then a bandage, because it was so _deep _Wulan could see _ flesh. _ “Cuma karena hasilnya nggak sempurna ,” she said, gingerly rubbing the red solution to his side. “bukan berarti kamu gagal, San.” Her voice was softer now, feather-like, and Sancaka's eyes grew misty. “ kamu tau, apa yang orang bilang soal kamu?” she asked, and Sancaka shook his head. “mereka bilang kamu _harapan_, San; kamu itu tanda—suatu Hari nanti, tirani ini bakal selesai, dan kebenaran yang menang.” She said, applying the bandage to the gauze, before caressing Sancaka's head with nimble fingers. 

“Tapi kebenaran _siapa_?” Sancaka insisted, his vulnerability now on full display. “siapa yang punya _hak_untuk—untuk menentukan apa yang benar, Lan?” 

Wulan blinked, the question catching her off-guard.

“Anak buah Pengkor bunuh banyak orang, Lan,” he said, his hand tangling to his hair as he looked away. “Tapi—tapi aku _juga _ _ .” _ He sounded so close to tears now, so _close _to breaking down, “Kita punya marka darah yang sama, Lan, di tangan kita—jadi siapa yang _benar _?” 

Wulan looked at him with gutted heart, his shaky voice a sharp knife to her insides. “Yang berjuang bukan buat kepuasan dirinya sendiri,” She said, trying to convey as much emotions as possible to her words, “yang rela berdarah-darah, biar orang lain nggak dizalimi.” She said, caressing his cheek with one hand. Sancaka's hand trailed down, catching hers. 

“Dunia gak seputih-hitam itu Lan,” he said, weary. 

“Mungkin,” Wulan agreed, “Tapi fakta bahwa kamu mau mencari celah diantara abu-abu itu bisa melindungi orang lain, itu—” she said, “kalau itu bukan upaya untuk melindungi kebenaran, aku gak tau apa lagi.” 

Sancaka looked at her, intently, his gaze burning something into her. As daylight peeked through her blinds, sunshine shone into his face, highlighting his eyes. 

_ Have they always been this rich? _ She thought, absent-mindedly, _so brown, like warm, molten chocolate? _

And for the first time since tonight, Sancaka smiled—a genuine smile, one that caught Wulan off-guard. 

She hoped the daylight were too faint lest to hide her reddening cheeks. 

“Pak Agung masih disana.” He said, quietly, “masih di atas atap itu—sendirian.” He sounded so small, so _ remorseful. _“Dia gak punya siapa-siapa.” 

Wulan's face sobered up, “dia punya _kamu_, San.” She tapped his cheek, gently, and Sancaka looked at her in surprise. “Jadi nanti kita turunin, bareng-bareng, ya?” Her words were filled with an honest promise. “kita kasih beliau pemakaman yang layak. Yang dia pantas dapatkan.” 

If Wulan's affection at him was visible, Sancaka didn't make a note of it. Still, they stayed in that position, eyes on the other with fingers lacing, merely inches apart, and _oh, what a tempting __thought _— 

“Mbak Wulan _ ngapain__?!” _

Wulan all but jumped from her seat, and lo and behold, there was Teddy; bleary yet wide-eyed and a little _shit. _“Teddy!” She said, her voice scandalous to mask her embarrassment for being caught in such a personal moment. 

“Ih, jijik!” 

“Mbak Cuma ngobatin—” 

“Teddy.” Sancaka's voice was deeper and more commanding, piercing through the budding siblings argument. His voice sounded more like the _ hero _he truly was. “Sini,” he gestured him with an idle finger, and Teddy grumbled. “ayo, sini.” 

“Bang Sancaka gak pake baju,” Teddy said, pointing the obvious, as if it would exempt him from Sancaka's order. But he inched closer, anyway, step by step. 

“Ya namanya luka badannya, diobatin,” Wulan retorted, heatedly. “masa ngeperban luka—” 

“Ssh,” Sancaka caught the siblings off-guard, pulling Teddy and Wulan closer to him once they were both within his arms' length. “Suara kalian keras banget, ya. Pantesan sodara.” 

“Apaan, sih—” 

“Suaraku gak keras, Bang—” 

“Ssh,” Sancaka said again, burying his face on the nook of Wulan's shoulders as he did so. Wulan could feel him smiling, faintly, through her skin. She blushed. 

Sancaka's eyes were droopy, now, and his wounds were tended sufficiently, already pinkish due to his super healing. He mumbled to Wulan's shoulder blades, words barely audible. 

But Wulan heard him. 

“Makasih, ya.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Sancaka/Wulan the only hets to ever. Also, terimakasih ke Devina ( @starfleetspike di twitter) yang udah menginspirasiku dengan jaksel thread nya. yall should check her gundala thread in twitter, @gundolo !!!


End file.
